There is nothing poetic or beautiful about this ache. It is face down on the floor weeping into the carpet like a water bottle with a loose cap, it is my laundry piling up on the floor, it is unanswered messages from people who are not you, it is staring out the window imagining another city another bedroom another bed and your mouth, those lips and that chin, a ferry ferrying hearts across the sound, to and fro, and I am here, made entirely of a supernova and a black hole, all light and all dark, stretching time to impossible limits to shred everything because entropy must and I just really fucking miss you.
-rjm
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Jo McCrory is a writer and artist living in northern California.
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What if I threw my phone into the deepest canyon? What if all my words came apart into a tangle of letters? What if I became a meal for scavengers and changed my name to Carrion? What if all the stars went out at once and the oceans became still as death? What would become of all the millions of secrets over thousands of centuries whispered to the night sky? What if they fell back to earth in flames like angels cast out of heaven? What if the mothers held their babies again? What if all the lovers were reunited to dance in the ashes? What if the earth rose up to swallow us all? What would we regret and what would we cling to? What if the next sunrise is the last sunrise? What if Man cries ‘uncle!’ and no one hears him? Maybe once, for a breath in time, I could be sublimely happy Maybe once, for the rest of my life, it can be enough -rjm
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